A Face Like Mine
by 779H41
Summary: "The last thing I want to do is see another face like mine." Maybe it was true; but if it was, then maybe that meant her face, too. (Chapter 1/?)


"Rachel, you know you can't come in."

Of course she knew. ("I didn't _ask_ to come in," she wanted to tell him, but she didn't. Now was not the time. Now was never the time.) She couldn't come in because she was a murderer (so was Helena, but Helena was redeemable; Helena was a _sestra_ ; Helena was a mother). She couldn't come in because she had betrayed them too many times to count. She couldn't come in because, in the end, she was their genetic identical but not their sister.

(She suddenly remembered Kira's voice: "Mommy says I can't call you Auntie Rachel anymore"; and then, during the next visit, Kira launching an attempt at emotional manipulation so laughably transparent that Rachel wanted nothing more to believe it.)

She couldn't come in because _what would she do there_ , in that suburban house with hedges and children's toys and lawn chairs and a hundred things whose names she didn't know? She couldn't come in because this was a place for people who knew how to feel love for each other, and she didn't even know how to pretend to know how.

How presumptuous, to think she _wanted_ to come in, and she had to reply to Felix, so—

"Ever since I was six years old, I've compared myself to each and every LEDA. Believe me, the last thing I want to do is see another face like mine."

 _Believe me_.

It was true, mostly. Partly. Sometimes.

It was true enough to get rid of the lingering guilt on Felix's face (and if Rachel couldn't absolve herself, she might as well absolve someone else); and it was true enough to let Rachel momentarily believe that the others' freedom was her freedom too; and it was true enough for Felix to take the folder and for her and Yusef to leave the Hendrix's house behind.

"You okay?" Yusef asked tentatively as they drove away.

"Of course," Rachel said, and she pretended to believe that, too.

* * *

As they drove Rachel shifted a little to the right, and her good eye (her _only_ eye, she corrected herself; the prosthetic eye was just there for show) caught her reflection in the rearview mirror.

"The last thing I want to do is see another face like mine."

Maybe it was true, but if it was, then maybe that meant her face, too.

* * *

Rachel spent the rest of the car ride silently naming the LEDAs in her mind. One at a time, in alphabetical order: name, serial number, birthplace. The dead ones too—Veera, Katja, Jennifer, Miriam…—because they were part of the list, and it was harder to skip them than to leave them in.

She had been doing this since she was a child, since she received the list at the age of six. She would do it if she couldn't fall asleep, or if she was angry, or just because. It wasn't peaceful, exactly, but it was at least something to do.

Yusef's voice interrupted her when she was had reached Yvonne Gustafson (843J91, Trondheim). "We're here, ma'am."

"Thank you," she told him, smiling slightly, and she passed him a $5 bill as a tip. He seemed slightly surprised but took it, and then exited the car to open the door for her. _My new manservant_ , Rachel suddenly remembered, and she burst out laughing uncontrollably. Yusef looked at her, looked away, and then got back into the car and drove away.

Rachel stayed by the curb, laughing alone—about everything and nothing at all—for at least another minute before collecting herself and heading towards the bar.

* * *

She had chosen the bar because she knew Alison's house would be on the route; and because she had come here once, with Marion, when Marion had told her about Charlotte; and because she couldn't think of anywhere better to go. It looked different, now, but maybe that was just the lack of depth perception.

There were just three people at the long, wrap-around bar, and a smattering of couples and small groups at the tables beyond it. Rachel chose a bar stool at the corner of the bar, three seats down from a young blonde woman mournfully sipping a cocktail and just to the left of a couple that seemed to be on a first or second date.

 _I've never been on a date_ , she suddenly realized idly. (Then again, based on what she was seeing at the adjacent table, she wasn't sure she ever wanted to.)

She ordered a martini and waited for something to happen. Was this what her life was going to be now, she wondered—an eternal waiting without knowing what it was she was waiting for? ( _Did you ever know what you were waiting for_? a part of her asked; and, a different part: _You're being a maudlin teenager_.)

Her martini arrived, and suddenly the absurdity of it all struck her, and she nudged the untouched drink back towards the bartender and put down a $20 bill beside it and walked out silently into the night.

And then, as she reached the end of the block, an unmistakable voice—

"Rachel?"


End file.
